


When Narratives Collide

by Kithri, Tamoline



Category: Indexing - Seanan McGuire, MCGUIRE Seanan - Works, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/pseuds/Tamoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When agents of the ATI Bureau - responsible for trying to make sure that fairytales don't get out of control, and limiting the damage when they do - stumble across Storybrooke, it's a nightmare scenario of barely contained archetypes that could potentially cause who knows how much devastation if unleashed.</p><p>For Regina, their arrival is just one more thread unravelling in her fast decaying control of the town.</p><p>Who is right and who is wrong? And will it actually matter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really have other continuing stories I should be working on. 
> 
> I'd like to blame Kitty for giving me this idea, and encouraging me to work on it.
> 
> There will quite possibly be more ships later.

I drove the car up to where Sloane was lurking, shadow-like, against a building.

Not a house, thankfully. 

The last thing I needed was to explain to the local police that, no, Sloane wasn't looking to stage a house invasion.

This time.

I rolled down the window. "Get in," I said.

She looked at me sullenly. "Is it over?"

"The five-ten-a is with CPS, the prince is spending the night in juvie, and the stepsister is still puking up her guts from the emetic we slipped her."

The tension in her shoulders relaxed a little. "I still say it would've been easier to cap the bitch," she said, and got into the car.

"Your feelings on Cinderellas have been noted."

She extended a middle finger in my direction. "Fuck you, you white-washed excuse for a human being. Go back to molesting Bambi." She stretched, cat-like, in the seat next to me. "Fuck. I *hate* prom night. Why did I have to be here again?"

She wasn't looking for an answer, but I gave her one anyway, as I pulled away from the sidewalk. "The branch we've been seconded to requested it."

As if working for the Aarne-Thompson Index Management Bureau - for all your fairytale memetic incursion needs! - wasn't fun enough, some bright spark had decided to try out an exchange program. The basic idea was that teams from one part of the country would be sent to another. See how the locals worked, pick up new tricks etc etc.

What this actually amounted to was a fuck of a lot of disruption and resentment from all sides, as teams were uprooted and scattered to the four winds.

I'd ended up being assigned to the Maine branch.

With Sloane for company.

Lucky me.

"Probably because you've been pissing them off the last month," I added after a moment. "I imagine they were hoping to get a chance to put you down."

I was only mostly joking.

Mostly, the people in field teams tended to be somewhere on the ATI spectrum - fairytales that had either been averted, in abeyance or, wonder of wonders, in full bloom, but still suitable for fieldwork. It conferred a certain sensitivity as well as resistance to incursions.

As well as certain vulnerabilities.

Sloane was a mostly reformed stepsister. She'd been stopped before going fully homicidal, and she was now a more or less functional member of the team, if one with an exceptionally bad attitude.

But we didn't give her any opportunity to poison people, and we kept her away from five-ten-As - Cinderellas.

Narratives were all about making do, about close enough, and Sloane would just be too much of a temptation.

Putting her here had been an act of fucking malice. 

And now the agent in charge - Brunswick - was going to find out the hard way what the price was for putting one of my people at risk like that.

I'd wait, of course.

But I wasn't in the habit of forgetting.

"Fuck them," Sloane said, settling back into her seat.

I eyed her cautiously. She was taking this entirely far too well.

What *had* she been doing whilst she had been waiting for me?

And did I actually want to know?

"You can admit it to me. It felt good, getting that prince locked up, didn't it?" Sloane asked me with a malicious grin.

I kept my eyes on the road. "It seemed expedient at the time," I answered.

"Yeah, yeah. Fucking princes," she said, yawning.

Fucking princes.

I grew up knowing what I was - a Snow White, even if I've never reached full bloom - so they've always held a certain dread for me.

And they've never been romantic figures, that's for sure.

Not knowing what happened to my mother made sure of that. She was a four-ten, a Sleeping Beauty. And not the type where she was awoken by a kiss from a prince, either. She was still comatose when my brother and I were born, and we didn't so much dislodge the poison needle from her hand as disconnect her from her life support with our birth.

The only mercy was the fact that the waste of space who had fathered us didn't win custody. (Fought despite the protests of his wife.)

Instead, we'd been raised by a member of the ATI Bureau.

I hadn't had much experience of normality. 

But then, as someone born into the spectrum, I was never exactly going to.

Sloane yawned again. "Any chance of you taking that stick out of your ass long enough to find a motel for the night?"

I quickly took a look at the clock in the dash, and just as quickly wished that I hadn't. It was already nearer four in the morning than three, and our Bureau sanctioned accommodation was hours away.

To my utter lack of surprise, we'd drawn the short straw when it came to assignments - the furthest one from Maine HQ.

"Some of us have a tendency to cause spontaneous eruptions of flowers," I said drily. "And part of our job is to cover incidents up, not cause them."

Having flowers sprout from the ground whilst I slept - regardless of whether said ground was earth, concrete or even carpet - was just one of the happy side effects being an incipient Snow White. It could be useful - an incident often heralded an incursion, and R&D swore that the species of plant was linked to what type of fairytale was just about to come a-calling - but it did make renting accommodation an absolute pain.

"Just fucking great," Sloane said. I didn't need to see her to know that she was rolling her eyes. And, as an act of petty revenge, she decided to put on some of her favourite death metal tracks and turn up the music to 'Let's make Henry's eardrums bleed' volume.

This was going to be a *long* ride back to the apartment.

Well, at least I shouldn't have a problem staying awake.

 

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Sloane suddenly grabbed my arm, almost causing us to swerve off the road and crash.

We should have been back by now, but apparently Sloane's desire to make me suffer had bested her desire to see her bed.

Her navigation had been... less than reliable, to say the least, and we'd spent the last few hours touring Maine's back roads.

Sloane, of course, had been taking every opportunity she could to cat-nap next to me.

Exhaustion may have been slowing me down, but not enough to stop me tossing the occasional swear word in her direction.

Sloane, of course, had just smiled contentedly. Probably still sleeping.

And now this.

"What the fuck, Sloane? I'm really not in the mood for this particular flavour of sh-"

Her expression belatedly stopped me. She was looking out of the window, in the direction of the forest running alongside the road.

"There's something happening in that direction," she said, her voice devoid of her usual snark.

"Something?" I asked.

Sloane, as an averted archetype, rather than one in abeyance like myself, was extremely sensitive to incursions. She could often have them figured out and pigeonholed before the rest of us had even felt them.

"I've never felt anything like it, okay?" she said, her voice sharp with frustration.

That... wasn't good.

In our fight against narratives, knowledge was our first and best weapon. 

Going into a situation unprepped could get people killed.

It could get a *lot* of people killed, if it was something like a Sleeping Beauty.

Of course, if we didn't get there in time, it would all be moot anyway.

"Fuck," I said heavily. "Okay, call it in, and tell them we're going to head closer to investigate." A side road heading in the right direction came up, with - small blessings - a road sign. "Tell them it's happening near a place called Storybrooke."

Storybrooke. Great. Now *there* was a name to send a shiver down the back of any ATI agent.

Sloane flipped me off. "I'm not fucking blind, you know," she said as I made the turning.

I ignored her.

Fuck, I was tired. I really didn't need to start an investigation right now.

Pity it didn't seem like I had a choice.

 

Storybrooke was almost ghostly empty at this time of day.

At least, I hoped it was the time of day that was the cause of the lack of people.

The other alternatives would be far, far worse.

I didn't need to be Sloane to be getting a bad feeling right now.

"Managed to get any more details yet?"

Sloane shook her head distractedly. "It's like there's a fucking party inside my head, and I'm not invited. Every time I think I get something," she slammed her hand down on the dash hard enough to crack it, "It *fucking* changes."

Well, that was about as far from good as I could imagine. 

And from the way that the pallor of her face was swiftly approaching my natural hue, Sloane shared my opinion.

"Do you honestly think that we were ever actually going to draw a pension, anyway?" I drawled.

"I never thought *you* would, no," she said, flipping me off. "I've been counting down the days until you take up your starring role in a glass coffin ever since I met you. *I'm* planning on getting old, fuck you very much."

But she was smirking, so I counted this as a victory.

Driving through its streets, Storybrooke seemed like any other small town in America.

In fact, it seemed like practically the platonic ideal of such a town.

This helped the chills going down my spine not at all.

Perfect. 

Too perfect.

My eyes almost closed, for possibly the fifth time in as many minutes, before they jerked open again.

I needed caffeine. 

Now. 

And maybe it'd help Sloane too.

I spotted a diner coming up on the left, and pulled over.

"Coffee," I said, pointing towards it. "Coffee good."

I could see Sloane clearly considering whether or not to give me shit.

In the end, she bounced out of the car with far more energy than she should reasonably have at this time in the morning.

Bitch.

Especially because I was fairly certain she was just playing it up to piss me off.

"Hey," I said as we neared the door. "There're people in there." I smirked tiredly. "Maybe some close proximity will unjam your radar."

"Fuck you," she said, with not quite as much verve as she was currently projecting.

I slumped in the nearest empty booth, allowed my face to just press against the cool, cool table for a moment before picking myself up again.

I opened my bottle of SPF 200 and started slathering my face, neck and hands.

One little advantage they didn't advertise about skin as white as snow was that I had a tendency to burn if I so much as looked at sunlight.

Sloane... wasn't sitting opposite me.

Craning my neck around, I managed to locate her, still standing at the door, seemingly frozen, looking more than a little freaked.

Oh, that wasn't good.

"Sloane," I said. "Get your ass over here."

She jerked, then sneered at me. She sat down just as the waitress came swaying over.

"Hey. I'm Ruby. We don't often see new faces around here," she said, smiling expectantly.

Sloane gave her a baleful stare, but I really didn't have the energy.

"Coffee," I said. "A jug of coffee. And... a full breakfast."

My condition might suck in most ways, but at least I didn't have to worry about putting on weight.

Sloane transferred her glare to me. Being a stepsister came with no such guarantee. "Make that two jugs. You do donuts here?"

Ruby nodded. "Sure do."

"I'll have two donuts then."

Ruby bustled off.

"So, what did you manage to figure out?"

Sloane's attitude disappeared.

"Everyone in this diner is part of a narrative," she hissed.

"Which one?" I asked, not liking where this was going.

"Not one. Ones. Plural."

My stomach dropped out. 

Multiple natural incursions at once?

Oh dear holy fuck.

That really, really was not good.

In a quite possibly biblical sense.

"Are you sure?" I croaked out of a suddenly dry throat.

She nodded. "They're mostly supporting cast. That guy," she said, jerking her head in the direction of a balding guy sitting at the counter. "He reads like someone you'd get on with," she said, a trace of a smirk crossing her face. "He may not look that short, but he feels like one of your short friends. Maybe you can get him to sing 'Hi-ho' for you. But our waitress, she feels like the star of a triple-three."

"A Red Riding Hood?" She looked older than the ones I'd heard about, but I guessed that'd be the least of the anomalies right now.

Sloane bit her lip. "Not sure. It seems to vary. Maybe?"

Well, that was comforting.

"And you say that *everyone* here is part of a narrative?" I asked. "Are they *active*?" My voice squeaked on the last word.

Ruby came over with the coffee and Sloane's doughnuts.

"So, what brings you to Storybrooke?" she asked.

I smiled fixedly at her as my mind whirled. If there were multiple narratives here, multiple *active* narratives...

I probably should say something to her, something in response.

There was a very good reason for that, if only I could remember what it was...

And then Sloane opened her mouth before I could. "Fuck off and die," she said pleasantly. 

Oh, yes, there it was.

Rule number one of our team. Never give Sloane the chance to interact with the public.

Ruby's smile disappeared, and she walked stiffly away.

I returned my attention to Sloane. "So? Are they active?"

"That's the good news. As far as I can tell, they're all frozen."

I felt like I could breathe again. I took a deep drink of the cup of black coffee in front of me.

The caffeine helped clear my thoughts, at least temporarily.

"Okay, let's call in what we've got. Something like this..." I shook my head. "The Bureau is going to want to..."

I heard the bell of the door go behind me. I turned around...

To meet the bluest eyes I'd ever seen.

I found myself on my feet, extending my hand.

There was something wrong, something horribly wrong, but, for the life of me, I couldn't remember what it was.

"Hi," I said, smiling helplessly. "I'm Henrietta Marchen. And you are..?" I asked, to the accompaniment of a rising chorus of birds.

There another noise as well. Someone was yelling something.

He took my hand in his, smiling equally as widely. "I'm David Nolan."

There was a pain, a distant ache in my leg. 

But it didn't matter, because I stepping towards David, mouth raised to meet his in a kiss...

Only to have someone - the name Sloane floated from my subconscious - stick her head in the way first.

And gave me her version of a kiss.

Which involved lips, vigour, but a lot more teeth than anyone would prefer.

"Thuck!" I almost screamed into her mouth, as mine filled with blood from the injury she'd just inflicted on my tongue.

But I could think again.

*Fucking* princes.

"Stay the *fuck* away from my girlfriend, townboy," Sloane growled. 

I almost toppled over sideways as I registered the full agony from when she had stomped enthusiastically on my instep."Thuck!" I shouted again.

The diner was silent, all eyes on us.

Everyone seemed frozen.

It couldn't last.

"I really don't get to do that often enough," Sloane contentedly hummed as she helped me towards the toilet in the back.

I grabbed some tissue. "Back door?" I asked thickly.

She didn't bother saying anything, just dragged me towards another door at the rear of the diner. We'd almost reached it when there was a yell from behind us, and the slap of approaching feet. 

Sloane turned around with a manic grin on her face. 

There was a thump, followed by a thud as my would-be rescuer hit the floor.

Thankfully *not* accompanied by the breaking of bone.

I couldn't focus on that, though. 

I had to get away from the still magnetic presence of David, no, *Nolan*, and gather myself.

We managed to make it outside without any further interference, and circled around to the car.

This, this was extremely not good.

We had to retreat, await reinforcements. Get more information about what the hell was going on here.

Wordlessly, I got into the driver's seat, whilst Sloane claimed shotgun.

I might be partially crippled, but it was still better than giving Sloane the chance to drive.

Somehow, she managed to withstand the temptation to say anything until we were speeding away.

I appreciated that.

I didn't appreciate the flood of cackles she *did* dissolve into, but I appreciated the lack of words.

Whilst it lasted.

"You *simpered* at him," she snorted.

I was still too busy swallowing blood to really say anything, so I just glared at her.

"You did!" she crowed. "Look! I took a photo!" She held up her phone, the display showing me looking... distinctly less composed than I would like to imagine I generally appear.

Oh great.

Oh just fucking great.

*That* was going to get passed around the office for pretty much ever.

Then a nasty thought occurred to me.

Had the town - the incursion - responded to our arrival by sending him?

*Fuck*.

I swallowed again. "Call backup," I said, around my swelling tongue. "Now."

Still snickering, Sloane pressed the screen a few times, held the phone to her ear, then took it away again and looked at the screen.

"Fuck," she said. "No signal."

We exchanged glances, then I gunned the engine and sped down the road out of town.

Whatever was going on here, I'd feel a lot better about it once we could study it from a distance.

We had almost reached the town limits - the town sign - when it happened.

Even I could feel the twist in the narrative.

There was a bang from beneath us.

The car careered out of control.

Straight towards the sign.

Impact.

Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so when we started this fic, we had this great idea - Kitty and Tamoline would alternate chapters, with Tamoline writing Henry's perspective and Kitty writing Regina's.
> 
> Kitty may have gotten distracted by other stories. Sorry.
> 
> But, finally, here's the second chapter.

I have certain... rituals. A number of them, actually, and I'm not talking hocus pocus. You see, I like order. I like to have everything in its proper place and at its right time. Not that Storybrooke and its many *charming* inhabitants tend to oblige me on that score, at least lately. So I do what I can to at least maintain some semblance of structure upon my own life. Well, mine and Henry's.

The rituals help.

At least, they're supposed to.

Take this morning, for example.

I wake precisely two minutes before the alarm goes off, surfacing from sleep in a relatively leisurely manner. At six am, when the muted tone sounds, I silence it without even having to look. Rising, I make my ablutions and then, cleansed and refreshed, dress in the smart pantsuit I laid out the night before. (And if I linger for a moment to check the overall effect in my bedroom's full-length mirror... Well. Perhaps old habits die hard.) The way a person dresses says a lot about them and their attitude to life. A sharp suit? Practical, capable and ambitious. A battered leather jacket and worn jeans? The less said about that sartorial snafu the better.

But I digress.

After checking on Henry -- quietly, so as not to disturb him; his alarm isn't due to go off for another ninety minutes yet -- I head downstairs. The coffee machine pings as I step into the kitchen, signalling that it has performed its task, as instructed. As if the rich aroma filling my nostrils wasn't enough of a sign. Mmmm. Sometimes I think I love the smell of coffee even more than the aroma of fresh-baked apple-pie. The thought of the dish makes my mouth water, just a little, but I resist the urge to reach for the fridge. I like to eat breakfast with Henry when I can. To appease my stomach in the interim, I snag a crisp red apple from the bowl, savouring the tart sweetness of it as my teeth sink into the yielding flesh. I must be hungrier than I thought, because a few bites later it's gone. It does take the edge off, though. I toss the core into the composting bin.

The mayor has to set an example, don't you know. Even in a place like Storybrooke.

Perhaps even especially in a place like Storybrooke.

Not that there are any other places like Storybrooke.

Pouring myself a generous mug of coffee, I carry it through to my office to begin dealing with the day's business.

At least, that's the way it's supposed to go.

What happens instead is that my phone rings. The display identifies the caller as Sidney, my *dear* friend and advisor. I feel a frown start to settle over my features, but I instinctively smooth it away. (Somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind, there's the echo of my mother's voice, long past and long passed. "You don't want wrinkles, do you darling? No, you want to keep that smooth skin of yours for as long as possible.") I have a lot to do and the last thing I need today is to drop everything to deal with some new disaster. For a brief moment, I'm strongly tempted to just ignore the call, but I know I can't.

Running the only newspaper in town means that Sidney hears things. He knows better than to disturb me for anything trivial, and if he's calling me at this hour... Well, it must be something truly important.

Sighing to myself, I take the call.

"Good morning, Sidney," I say, brightly. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

I manage to resist the temptation to add a catty 'at this hour' to the end of that sentence. It's a close thing, but I somehow manage to find it within myself to resist.

"Good morning, Madam Mayor," says Sidney, quietly courteous as always. It's one of his better qualities. "It seems that there's been an... incident at Granny's diner." He pauses, maybe even hesitates, and there's a note of uncertainty in his voice as he continues. "I suggest that you come down here right away."

I raise an eyebrow, even though no one's here to see it.

"What sort of incident?"

I'm already making plans to have someone come and watch Henry, figuring out how to reorganise my workload to make room for unforeseen this complication, whatever it is, but more information is always useful. As Mr Gold is wont to say, knowledge is power. More prosaically, a little forewarning can make the difference between the rapid resolution of a crisis and its spiralling into a full-blown catastrophe.

Not that there were any crises *or* catastrophes before Ms Swan waltzed into town.

There's a definite hesitation before Sidney answers my question.

"Two out-of-towners had what I understand to be some manner of altercation with David Nolan." Out-of-towners? That's... interesting. Disturbing, rather. "The strangers fled the scene, but seem to have left behind some peculiar... phenomena."

'Phenomena?' What on earth does that mean? Unless...

Oh.

*Oh*.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

 

"What on earth?"

The front of Granny's diner looks like a set from that Hitchcock film. Bloody streaks mar the usually pristine window, and piled on the ground in front of it are lots of dead birds, necks twisted at unnatural angles with eyes staring glassily at nothing. And growing all around the small corpses -- even growing through some of them -- there are wildflowers. Tens of wildflowers; hundreds. Surely not thousands. They're growing right up from what had been a plain concrete sidewalk, lush, bright and utterly impossible by the laws of the world.

By the laws of this world.

Sidney was right. I really did need to see this.

"And here you are, just like the proverbial bad penny."

The woman's voice is part scornful, part resigned. My lip wants to curl in distaste, but I make my expression blandly pleasant as I turn to face her.

"Ms Swan," I say, sweetly. I absolutely refuse to call her 'Sheriff.' "Fancy meeting you here."

She looks like she's been dragged through a hedge backwards, all windswept hair and rumpled clothing, her badge incongruous pinned to that ridiculous leather jacket she insists on wearing everywhere. Even, apparently, when on the job.

Still, at least she's remembered that she *has* a job. Truly, wonders will never cease.

"Tell Sidney I said hi," she says flatly.

"I'll be sure to do that if I run into him." I pour on the sugar, delighting in the way her lips press together, as if she's biting back a thousand and one unwise words. I almost hope she doesn't succeed, but it seems that today she has more things on her mind than just needling me.

I suppose it would be asking a bit much for her to hold more than one semi-complex thought at a time.

"Well," I say, briskly. "Since you're here, and I'm here, why don't you fill me in on what this is all about." I give the somewhat macabre flower display a dubious look. "I somehow doubt this is anything as simple as a guerrilla art installation."

"I wish," she sighs. "No, this is something far more Twilight Zone."

I wait a moment, but all she does is glare at the, ah, 'phenomena' as if they've personally offended her.

"Well?" I prompt.

She makes a frustrated sound, and I can't deny that my heart lifts just a little at her disgruntled confusion. The only thing that would make it better would be if it were directed at me.

Sometimes it's the little things that make life worth living.

"Okay, short version: two strangers showed up at Granny's. Both women; looked like they'd been on the road a while. They ordered coffee and food -- so far, so normal."   
Normal as far as she knows, perhaps, but I'm already trying to figure out what went wrong and how it can be fixed. After all, the last stranger to show up here was Ms Swan, and look at how that's turned out.

Her frown deepens.

"Then one of 'em got a little up close and personal with David Nolan. As far as I can tell, that's when all the weirdness started."

"What do you mean by 'up close and personal?" I ask, curiously. There's something strange about her tone, like she's not talking about the fight I assumed Sidney meant by 'altercation.'

"Well, to hear Ruby tell it, they looked like they were about to stick their tongues down each other’s throats."

I allow myself to enjoy a sudden, small flare of Schadenfreude.

"Mary Margaret can't be too pleased about that," I observe in a flawlessly neutral voice. From the strange look Ms Swan gives me, perhaps it's not as flawless as I thought. On the other hand, she often gives me strange looks.

I think she's just strange.

"Shouldn't you be more worried about Kathryn's feelings?" she asks, disapprovingly. Which is rich coming from her. "After all, she's his wife. And your *friend*."

Despite myself, I bristle a little at her tone, drawing myself up to my full height to fix her with a steely glare.

"Do try not to get side-tracked, Ms Swan," I say, aiming for just the right note of patronising reproach. "Now, you were saying?"

She returns my glare with interest, but doesn't let herself be provoked into a confrontation she can't win.

Pity.

"*As* I was saying," she continues. "According to Ruby *and* Granny, David walked into the diner, he and this woman locked eyes and bam! Hearts and flowers and little fluttering birdies. Literally." A grimace twists her mouth. "Well, not so much fluttering as slamming themselves into the diner, but you get the idea."

"Oh," I say, my mind racing through possibilities. This was supposed to be a world devoid of magic, but maybe that's not entirely the case? Sidney was definitely right to call me.

There has to be a way I can turn this to my advantage.

"What happened, specifically? What was the timeline of events?" Because the devil is in the details, or so they say, and there are a whole lot of details being left out here.

"Specifically? Okay, let me see." She pulls out a small notebook, flipping through the pages until she finds what she's looking for. "Female, average height, white - and by that I mean the kind of white usually associated with mimes, jet black hair, blue eyes. Spots David at about the same time as he spots her. They move towards each other, apparently ignoring everyone and everything else. Ruby says she called a greeting to him, but he didn't even seem to hear her." I refrain from pointing out that perhaps he simply didn't want to talk to Ruby. That's certainly a sentiment I can understand and sympathise with. "They exchange greetings -- tall, dark and ghostly's name is Henrietta something, by the way -- clasp hands, and start leaning in for a kiss."

"So did they? Kiss, I mean." That could be important. That could make a difference.

Ms Swan makes a strange noise, maybe a bark of edged laughter.

"No, not quite. Her friend... intervened." She consults her notes again. "Female, short but wearing platform shoes, white, magenta-haired, eye-colour uncertain. When David and Henrietta became enthralled by one another, this one swore profusely and inventively and tried to break them up. She was apparently muttering something about 'fucking princes.' First, she tried violence -- slapping her 'friend's' face, stamping on her foot. It didn't work." She shakes her head. "Henrietta apparently didn't even seem to notice it. So Magenta kissed her."

She smiles suddenly, glancing up at me.

"*That* part certainly made an impression on the witnesses. By all accounts, it was very, ah, thorough." Somewhat perplexingly, she favours me with a saucy wink before her expression sobers once more and she returns to her account. "Involving a bit more blood than I usually favour, though. Anyway, it also made an impression on the recipient, apparently snapping her right out of her trance. Cue more swearing -- from both of them, this time -- and they scarpered through the back door." Closing her notebook with a snap, she shakes her head again. "Leroy tried to stop them, but Magenta just decked him. One blow, down and out. Whoever she is, she apparently packs one hell of a punch."

"So, when did all of *this* happen?" I wave in the direction of the bird-strewn flower bed. Or, flower-strewn bird pile, depending on which way you wanted to look at it.

"I'm getting to that. No one seems sure of the exact sequence of events, but at some point between when David stepped into the diner and the women ran out of it, a flock of birds decided to kamikaze the building. Presumably -- although, I don't know if we can assume *anything* given the utter weirdness of this situation -- that's also when the sidewalk burst into bloom. The aerial bombardment lasted roughly until the women got in their car and drove off."

"Heading where?"

"Out of town, apparently. With enough of a head start that they're probably long gone by this point. Which means they're not my problem." She shrugs. "Now you know as much as I do. And, *if* you don't mind, I really need to get on with my investigation."

I wave a hand in absent acknowledgement, turning over the rather strange events in my mind. There's something here. A pattern, maybe; a sense of something larger. If I could just bring it into focus...

"You know..." Ms Swan's voice breaks into my thoughts, sounding rather more thoughtful than is her wont. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

And, strange thought it is to find myself in agreement with Ms Swan about *anything*, I can't help thinking the same thing.

Pulling on a pair of bright blue gloves, she crouches down to poke at the flowers and dead birds, the look on her face part distaste and part fascination. I wonder what she's looking for. Whatever it is, she doesn't see fit to share her thoughts, such as they are, with me. Never mind. I somehow doubt she has the right context to process the kind of details I need.

I move a few paces away from her and bend down, reaching carefully out to pluck one of the blooms *not* growing up through a dead bird.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Ms Swan's voice is sharp, angry. If I were some other woman -- some lesser woman -- it might have made me jump. As it is, I simply turn my head slightly and fix her with a stern look.

"What does it look like?"

"Messing up my crime scene," she fires back. "Look. You-" She breaks off, shaking her head and sighing melodramatically. "Never mind. Here." Pulling off one of her gloves, she fumbles around in her pocket for a few moments and pulls out something which she flings carelessly towards me. I catch it reflexively, opening my hand to reveal another pair of thin blue gloves.

"What are these for?"

She raises an eyebrow at me.

"Dead birds?" she says slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Unnatural vegetation growth? God knows what kinds of chemicals or contagion could be there. Frankly, I'm half wondering if we should call in a biohazard unit and have them seal off the whole site like in ET." She frowns, looking genuinely concerned. "Although, if it's anything airborne, I guess it's already be too late for anyone at ground zero. Including us."

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," I say stiffly. But I do put on the gloves, and she gives me what looks like an approving nod, humour glinting in her eyes.

"So you can listen to me on occasion," she says, grinning lopsidedly in a way that isn't pretty at all (and yet *somehow*, annoyingly, manages to light up her face). "Truly, it's a day for miracles."

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day," I retort. (And it isn't as though her smile's *that* attractive, anyway.) "Is that what you think caused this? The strange behaviour and the flowers? Some chemical or disease?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. You got a better idea?"

Yes, but not one *she's* ready to hear. Or that I'd share with her even if she was.

"Let's find out, shall we?"

I turn back to the flowers. I sense, rather than see, her looking at me for a moment or two, and then the creak of her jacket indicates that she's following my example.

As is only right and proper.

Really, it would make my life so much easier if she would do that more often. (Less interesting, perhaps, but so much easier.)

Dismissing all distractions from my mind, I focus my attention on the blooms, half-closing my eyes so I can better concentrate on other senses. There's definitely something here, a faint trace of energy, a frisson of magic. Not natural, precisely, but not unnatural either. Which just makes no sense at all. Opening my eyes again, I study the way the birds are scattered, bloody smears on the window supporting Ms Swan's account of them dashing their little brains out against the diner. I grasp a flower, tugging on it gently, proving to myself that it is, in fact, rooted tightly.

Hmm.

The birds -- and even, strangely, the flowers -- make my thoughts turn to Snow White, make my hand tighten involuntarily into a fist, crushing the flower.

"Geez," says Ms Swan, her voice sounding distant through the sudden roaring in my ears. "What did that flower ever do to you?" I take a breath, bringing myself back under control as I struggle to form a suitable reply, but a beat later she exclaims: "What the hell?"

Curious, I glance over at her, but she seems focused on the area just in front of me. I follow the direction of her gaze, and my eyes widen in surprise. During my moment of distraction, a patch of flowers have suddenly withered and died, the area of decay forming a rough circle centred on the stem I'm still gripping tightly. I make my hand open, resisting the urge to scrub at my palm, thankful beyond all reason for the gloves protecting my skin.

Magic. That was magic. I felt it, channelled it, using it to turn my anger at Snow into... this.

I used magic.

It takes all the self-control I possess not to let out the triumphant smile that bubbles up just below the surface of my skin.

There's magic here, and I can use it.

All I have to do is figure out how. And, more importantly, how I can acquire more.

"Perhaps this is another aspect of the phenomenon," I say briskly, stripping off the gloves. "We need an expert. Unfortunately, the nearest we have is Mr French."

Ms Swan looks at me in bemusement.

"The flower guy?"

"Yes. I'll have him come and transplant the flowers to his greenhouse, where they can be sealed away and studied under controlled conditions. Unless you have a better idea."

I deliberately don't make it a question. Ms Swan looks like she wants to argue, but after a moment's thought -- I can practically see the gears slowly grinding -- she nods abruptly.

"Fine. But tell him to take care. And to wear protective equipment."

"I'll instruct him to take all suitable precautions."

"You do that. I'm going to talk to the witnesses again, try to get some more details. Like a license plate number; that would be good."

She disappears off into the diner. I make the call -- adding a couple of extra instructions that Ms Swan doesn't need to know about -- and then follow her inside, finding her mid-conversation with Ruby and Granny.

"-she have been sick?" Ms Swan is asking, her face drawn in a very unflattering frown.

Ruby shrugs. "Maybe. She certainly didn't look well. She actually laid her head down on the table after she ordered her food."

"Well, if she wasn't sick before, she probably is now," I murmur.

"What was that?" Granny asks sharply, fixing me with a gimlet-eyed stare.

"Nothing," I say sweetly. I glance around the diner. "Where's David?"

Granny continues to glower silently at me and Ruby just shrugs, leaving it to Ms Swan to answer my question.

"A couple of the birds were still alive, so he took them to the shelter to see what he could do for them. I'm planning on heading over there now."

"Excellent. I'll come with you."

"I don't suppose I'll be able to convince you to leave this to me, will I?" she says hopefully.

"No, Ms Swan, I don't suppose you will."

"Fine. Bye Ruby, Granny. You know where I am if you think of anything else." She heads for the door, pausing only to say: "Just try not to get in my way."

"As long as you don't get in mine."

She looks at me sideways as I catch up with her on the sidewalk.

"It's a good job you weren't in there when all this was going down," she mutters. "Otherwise Henry would-"

She bites off the sentence so abruptly that I'm almost surprised not to hear the clack of her teeth. I turn my head towards her, but she's looking resolutely ahead, not meeting my gaze.

"Henry would what?" I enunciate the words precisely, my voice cold enough to freeze water and sharp enough to cut glass. I'm really rather pleased with the effect.

"Henry... would be scared," she says, her words gathering momentum as she continues. "After all, you bring him to breakfast here sometimes, don't you? I'm glad he wasn't here to see those birds dying."

I idly think about calling her out on her obvious temporisation -- if not outright fib -- but dismiss it as not worth the effort. Besides, we're almost at the shelter I'm looking forward to hearing what David has to say for himself.

 

"Whoa," says David, gently stroking the frantically cheeping birds huddled on the towel in front of him. "Something's certainly got them rattled." I take a step forward, hoping to get a clearer impression of the magical residue tantalisingly tickling at the edge of my senses. The birds go crazy. One of them even tries to take flight, impossible as it is with its broken and splinted wings. David looks down at them, and then up at me, puzzled. "Back off a little, Regina. Please," he adds, belatedly.

I frown, but do as he asks. The birds seem to calm a little.

"Huh." He frowns, looking for all the world like a little puppy lost in the big bad world. "Step towards me again." I do so, even without the please. I'm curious to see what will happen, although I'm starting to have a shrewd suspicion. Sure enough, they start up their infernal racket once more. I back away again without being asked, retreating all the way to the doorway.

"Let me try," Ms Swan says, swiftly. She walks slowly towards David and his 'patients.' No reaction from the feathered fiends.

Well, that's interesting.

"They really don't like you," says David, looking at me like I've just kicked his puppy.

"Maybe they don't like my perfume," I say lightly, my thoughts racing to try and make sense of this. I suppose the birds could be connected to Snow, somehow, which may explain their reaction to me. But then, what about the mysterious women from out of town?

I need more information, and fast.

"Maybe," David echoes, sounding dubious. "I've never seen that happen before, though."

"Well, whatever it is, I'll just stay over here. See? Problem solved."

"I guess. But that still doesn't-"

"Now that's sorted out," I interrupt. "Perhaps you can tell me exactly what happened with the woman in the diner."

Annoyingly, he looks to Ms Swan before he answers me, waiting until she gives him a not-at-all-subtle nod of confirmation.

I swear, I used to get much more respect in this town before she came along. It's really a pity that mounting severed heads on the town hall is against American penal codes.

"I don't really remember all that much about it," David says slowly, looking deeply uncomfortable. "It's just... I went into the diner, saw this woman, and it's like... like I knew her; like I'd always known her. Maybe I met her at college or something? I don't know."

Well, I know for a fact *that's* not true. But could she be someone from the other side? Someone who's somehow managed to bring a bubble of it with her? To hold onto some of its magic?

That certainly has... possibilities. Especially if it's an item I can appropriate.

"What happened next?" Ms Swan prompts David, her question drawing me from my inner contemplation.

He shrugs.

"I, well, I went towards her and she stood up. She looked like she recognised me, too. We... shook hands? Introduced ourselves."

"Do you remember her name?" she wants to know.

That elusive scent of magic suddenly sharpens, becoming something almost tangible, something I can almost grasp.

"Henrietta Marchen." David almost seems to sigh the words, the discomfort on his face melting into something soft, something fond, something a lot like... like... love?

Wait a minute. True Love? Is this really a case of honest-to-*something* True Love? But- But what about Mary Margaret? What about *Snow White*? Can someone have more than one True Love? Is that even possible?

What on earth is going *on* here? What does it all mean?

And, more importantly, how can I use it?

"Unusual name," Ms Swan murmurs, giving David a strange look.

He shakes his head, blinking rapidly, his eyes wide and startled. The magic scent fades again, leaving nothing but a faint, tormenting hint in the air to tell me that it had been there.

"Um, I guess," he says, shrugging.

"So, what did you do then?" she asks.

"I..." He winces, looking away from us. "I think I tried to kiss her," he mutters, sounding guilty. "Or maybe she tried to kiss me. I don't really remember. It's kind of foggy, you know? Like it happened in a dream, or to someone else. The next thing I remember clearly is the sound of a door slamming, and then I saw Leroy groaning on the ground." He looks from Ms Swan to me and back again, his expression thoroughly miserable. "What's going on here? What happened?"

For some reason, I find myself looking towards Ms Swan, who's also casting a glance in my direction. Our eyes meet, briefly, but then she turns back to David.

"I wish I knew," she sighs, shaking her head. "I really wish I knew."

And, for the second -- third? -- time today, I find myself in agreement with the infuriating Ms Swan.

What is happening in my town?


End file.
